Rains splatter on the silence of night
When the holy seas bend their head in sleep.
I recline on the stillness of a bright moon,
Shining forth into the head of my bed.
Her body is pumiced and oiled by the hands
Of caring night spirits that walk the length of
A gentle September.
Darkness deepens at the yawning of the earth
When it thirsts for rain – that wondrous element
Known for its wetness and liquidness.
Rain rattles on my corrugated iron roof, reminding me
Of the sensuality of childhood.
In those days we swore we had a million cowries
Come forth from the sky, to enrich our foolishness.
Cosy bedways soothe our souls in one long hour
Of smugness. We snuggle in-between counterpanes,
Squirming loosely for matters of deep intimacies.
And proud gusts come and cease; cease and resume with
Laborious, titanic spells that lull us to dreamy slumbers.
The night is under siege from the terrors of thunder, the hollow
Voice of rain that speaks in several languages.
O poor night, how your nakedness comes to the eye of
The lightning, the tinder of rain.
Such slumber reminds us of the dead who sleep deeply
Within the contours of the earth, with one night-snooze
Of rain and one hour remembrance of an ailing sun.
Whatever the dead mean by that is up to them.
But then we must chastise such feelings, such aberrations
When they clog our brains. We must think less of the dead
At such hour. We must laugh at our short-lived bliss that
Form the cradle of our pluvial merriment.

At midnight, in the midst of the rain,
We must cogitate a while
And remind ourselves of the promises of our roots.
We must monitor the breath of the rain, to know
When it has wasted its torrents.
That’s when you can resume your thoughts of the dead –
Oh yes, those gentle people with sands on their bodies,
But with unbothered brains...

The gourds of our souls are filled up.
The rains fall on and on, and sparks of lightning
Merely jeer at us as we jeer at rodents for their
Venial offences by the day.
We compose light songs within us, songs that are
Meaningless except with the resonance of raindrops.
We are merry and salute the bliss of dancing winds
Through doors carved by the teeth of thunder.
Only then do we seek subterfuges for our failures.
We smother laughter brewed in the recesses of our
Troubled heart. Consolations paint our hearts, darkened
By the greed of sorrows. We smile through pouted mouth
And think of our lovers in the hands of more successful men.
Picasso’s burning eyes could not be dampened by the rain.
Rembrandt’s hair, ever fluffy, nursed our wondering eyes at that
Hour – that lonesome, rain-saddled hour, sleepy hour that was
Roused by wetness of the earth...

When we submit our thoughts on a platter of sorrow,
Madness cranes its neck no more.
Just like the rain — when it stops,
The clock begins to tick.
And our hearts again begin to beat.